


Ambush

by lily rose (annabeth)



Series: piss!verse 2.0 [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Dean Winchester, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Incest, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sam is sixteen, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, Watersports, Weecest, Wetting, Wincest - Freeform, but it's Sam with all the power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Sam walks into an ambush.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: piss!verse 2.0 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Ambush

Sam walks into an ambush.

It's two-thirty in the afternoon, the sun is shining, birds are twittering, and he even saw a rabbit gambole past in the yard. He stopped to pet some puppies frolicking in the spring grass in front of a neighbor's house, the family trying to get the puppies adopted. Sam wants one—he desperately wants a dog—but he knows that John would never let him have one, and that they couldn't take it with them when they put the town in their rearview anyway.

But when Sam unlocks the front door, pushing it open and toeing off his sneakers, he's not expecting—not prepared for—the solid, muscular body that grips the collar of his shirt, whips him around the door, and slams him against the wall. The door swings shut, and Dean—because of course it's Dean, he'd know that body and scent no matter what—flicks the deadbolt and then rocks forward, into Sam's body, running his nose along Sam's jaw, up, over Sam's nose—

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam asks. He supposes he should know; that he ought to have expected this—because he did obliquely hint to Dean this morning that he should find and watch that video. But Dean, Dean is almost rabid against him, lips, teeth, tongue fucking Sam's skin in every place he can reach. His tongue dips into the pulse at Sam's throat, his breath fans hot and sweet like strawberries over his lips as he raises his head and finally—ah, _finally_ —slows down. Pauses, and breathes, and studies Sam's face.

"I need…" but Dean can't seem to find the words. Sam frames his face with his hands, meeting green eyes gone hazy, nearly feral, with lust. Sam's pulse jumps, speeds, does jumping jacks and somersaults and vaults from great heights to the ground—then lower. He can't catch his breath; he can't keep from wetting his lips with his tongue.

Dean's eyes flick downward, and he stares greedily at Sam's tongue, his mouth.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam's proud of how quiet his voice is, how level his tone. He sounds calm, almost unaffected—but Dean's eyes have also taken in that pulsepoint in his throat, and Sam can tell Dean knows this is a facade. But a useful one—he needs to slow Dean down, at least a little, because his brother is a little like a wild animal right now. He lowers his voice even more. "Are you desperate, Dean? To piss? Or," he draws out the word, "to be fucked?"

Dean's eyes immediately shutter, his throat works, and his body seems to lunge for Sam against even Dean's conscious will. Ah, so Dean has an urge—and Sam thinks it's the second one, because Dean's reaction was delayed—he didn't go stiff as a pole in his jeans until Sam asked him that question.

"Sammy," Dean mutters, "where did you even learn—"

"I'm a product of the internet age, Dean. Like you, I visited porn sites." Dean's eyes open a slit. "Yes, Dean. Even though I scolded you."

Dean has a faintly guilty look on his face, a flush beneath his five o'clock shadow and spreading up his cheekbones. It makes Dean look absolutely delicious for all it makes him appear innocent—and Sam has cause to know Dean is anything but innocent. If his brother was still a virgin at fourteen—hell, even thirteen—Sam would be very surprised.

Slowly, the blacks of his pupils is pushing out the green of his irises, making them nothing more than a fairy ring in his eyes. Dean's touching his face now, cautiously, little fluttering touches of his fingertips.

"No, Sammy," Dean whispers, inhaling and taking Sam's breath with him at the beauty of that expression on his face, "how did you know I've let other men fuck me?"

Sam smiles, letting it uncurl on his face like sweet benediction. "I didn't." He watches Dean's face carefully—a tic in his jaw, a slight widening of the eyes, and down below, Dean's hard as a pikestaff—and adds, "but I had some idea that might be the case, and well, now I know for certain, don't I?"

Dean's eyes cut away from Sam for a second, and when they're back, they're fathomless, but there's an edge to Dean now. Dean looks—Dean looks like he's more expecting a punch than a kiss, so Sam obliges him: it's his turn to ambush Dean, and he does it with a kiss that's meant to knock Dean off his pins, to be a gut-punch.

Dean's mouth falls open under Sam's, and maybe he's expecting violence, for Sam to do him some kind of injury, but the only injury Sam's interested in causing is one in Dean's heart—he wants to carve his name there for all eternity, thick in the blood and muscle of it. He wants Dean to hear his name— _Sam Sam Sam_ —with every beat. So he tastes Dean, taking his time, refusing to rush. He tiptoes along Dean's tongue, but beats a retreat when Dean comes asking for more. He lines the seam of Dean's lips with his tongue, chaste and innocent, before slipping back inside.

And all the while, as he torments Dean with a kiss that's too delicate to really satisfy, he's acquainting Dean with how things are going to be this afternoon. He's not going to be hurried, he's not going to give in and let Dean take the reins—he's going to have Dean at his mercy, both in bed and out of it. And gradually, as Sam deepens the kiss, as he slides his tongue along Dean's teeth or carefully sucks his bottom lip—pulling it into his own mouth, closing his teeth over it—Dean's body gentles. Like a puppy that's found a person it wants to please, and is exhausted, allows itself to be held, Dean's being becomes more and more still and silent.

And Sam, for his part, is like an icy stream: outwardly, he's placid, willing to kiss Dean here, against the wall, for as long as Dean wants. But inside, he's a roiling, frothing ocean, desperate to get Dean naked—and then plow into him without any concern for anything but his own pleasure.

Sam won't do that, of course. He'd never willingly hurt Dean, and Dean wouldn't accept something rough this time—their first time. He knows maybe someday Dean will want less consideration, but not now, today. Today, Dean had been frantic with lust, had thought he wanted a quick tumble, maybe even to be the one to stick his dick into Sam.

But Sam knows he's proven his point now; drawing back, raising his head, he watches those swollen, cocksucking lips remain parted, a droplet of saliva glistening on his bottom lip, and for a moment, Dean just stands there, utterly still. Sam has shocked him into motionlessness.

"Upstairs, right, Dean?" Sam asks, running his palm over Dean's skull, feeling the soft, springy blonde hair there. It's softer than he expects, which makes no sense. He must have touched Dean's hair a million times in his life, but somehow, _this_ time, it feels like a revelation. "Your room." Sam doesn't need Dean's affirmation of this; he knows Dean is likely to have lube on hand in his nightstand, just like it's unlikely Sam will.

Sam has never needed lube for his own experimentation, because either he was practicing pissplay—though piss is not as slick as his own fluids or some kind of lubricant—or he was simply whacking off, using precome to smooth his hand. Now, he nudges Dean back, forcing Dean to take a few steps away from him, and holds out that very same hand he's used to pleasure himself—and feels a lovely little sprig of pleasure rise up as Dean takes it.

He tugs Dean away from the front hall, and up the stairs, turning right at the landing and bringing them both to Dean's room—Dean's intimate space, which is both cluttered and messy, and yet, most of that is the newspaper clippings on the walls and the weapons scattered across the desk. Sam shuts the door, then locks it. Even though the deadbolt is thrown downstairs, they can't be too careful—though Sam doesn't expect John back for hours. Maybe not even until tomorrow.

Dean's wearing a blue t-shirt and blue jeans, and because he was home by himself, no shoes, just socks. Somehow it's strange to Sam to see Dean looking so ordinary in a situation as extraordinary as this one—backlit by sunshine from the window, with the chorus of birds outside as a soundtrack, and the slight urge to piss low in Sam's belly… the nimbus of light around Dean's blonde hair, making him look angelic; the rasp of his breathing; the dirty socks strewn on the floor to the way the bed is crookedly made, with a pair of boxers hanging off the edge, half-hidden by the blanket.

Dean's police radio is on, and Sam's laptop is kitty corner on the desktop, folder open to that special recording he made just for Dean. And then there's Dean, incongruous amongst the mess and detritus of a young adult life: beautiful, so very dear, and heart-achingly _Sam's_ , in those dingy white socks, the t-shirt that sets off his pale skin, the blue jeans that highlight his erection, and down to the freckles that scatter like stars across his face.

And then Sam is moving, reaching for the hem of Dean's t-shirt, pulling it upward—Dean is just watching him, green eyes grave, and his face disappears for a second as he raises his arms and Sam divests him of his shirt. He stops there, though, just to marvel. Where once he saw this every day but refused to concentrate on it, now he soaks it in: the paleness of his chest where he hasn't seen enough sunlight—somehow they're always hunting in the dark—to the flat, pebbled pink of his nipples, or the arrow of hair that directs Sam's gaze downward, to the low-slung jeans that are hiding what Sam really wants from his view.

Sam tugs his own shirt off, and even that second it covers his eyes is too long to be without the image of Dean—when he's bare-chested, he steps towards Dean, who's holding so still he might be a deer caught by a hunter in the woods, afraid to be ravished by the bullet. And that's what Dean's expression clearly conveys, that he's going to be ravished by Sam's love, and that in some weird way it frightens him as much as it turns him on. And he is turned on, prodigiously so, hard and pressed so tight to his fly it has to hurt.

Sam takes pity on him. He flips the button through the hole, then undoes the zipper, then rolls the denim down Dean's taut, muscular thighs. He goes down onto one knee to get them to the floor, and Dean steps out of them. Again, Sam has to stop, awestruck by what he's revealed. He has a moment—a flurry of thoughts, one successive after another—where he remembers, in the back of his mind, that Dean often doesn't wear underwear—and he isn't now. And no matter how many times he may have seen Dean in various states of undress—even when they were messing around—this moment is gilded in time, the succession of moments that are marching towards their _real_ first time, beyond a first kiss or a clumsy handjob.

Dean's cock is beautiful, flushed cherry red at the crown, thick veins on display, the girth of it impressive and the length making Sam's mouth water at just the sight of it. He wants to taste—and someday he will, but not today, most likely—and yet, still on one knee, eye level with all that abundant bounty, he just wants to drink it in. Dean's cock, if anything, has hardened even more as a result of Sam's single-minded attention to it; it's pointing true north and bumped up against his belly, leaving a streak of precome across the skin—and drops of it are sticking the hairs of his treasure trail together. Swallowing tightly around the anticipation in his throat, he allows himself one more moment to study it, to acknowledge that this is _his_ , and then he returns to his feet. 

This is the real deal, and Sam can't bring himself to go too fast. He wants to savor every aspect of Dean, from how he looks—delectable—to his scent—slightly musky now that he hasn't got a stitch on besides his socks, a faint tang of perspiration in the air. Sam smiles. Dean, who has been standing much like a doll might, as if afraid to move, seems to to take some comfort in Sam's smile: he shifts minutely on his feet, and his eyes are piercing green, focused like lasers on Sam's.

"Dean," Sam whispers, and then he's close, so close to his brother, their chests nearly touching with each breath, and he runs his fingers oh-so-lightly up and down Dean's arms, causing Dean to inhale sharply, and his skin to break out in chill bumps. Sam does it again: a quick, sweeping caress, up and back down, and then he takes and laces both of their hands together. He holds tight, then kisses Dean.

His brother is still barely moving, content to let Sam explore, and Sam understands that it's less about not corrupting Sam and more about _needing_ this—to be controlled. To have his will dominated by Sam's. Sam rather thinks that every guy who ever fucked his brother probably got the control part right, and was allowed to have it. But only Sam will ever be able to dominate Dean _emotionally_ , and right here, right now, they're both suspended in time—the breathless empty space between seconds, where time stands still and all they can see, feel, taste is each other.

And then the kiss is over, lips parted, and Sam lets Dean's hands go, using one fingertip to ghost back and forth across Dean's chest, tapping each nipple as if creating an unseen connection between them. He skims his palm downward, drawing sensation along with it, as Dean's muscles flutter beneath his hand. He finds Dean's treasure trail and traces it, again, with one fingertip—his finger dewed by Dean's precome—before bending his head, breathing shallowly against Dean's chest, as Dean struggles mightily not to push Sam back, onto the bed—Sam can sense Dean's urgency, his desire, but he won't take over, won't be the one to hurry Sam along—and Sam won't be hurried.

He kisses the center of Dean's chest, and his skin contracts with the pressure; he drags his lips across his smooth chest—like alabaster—and finds Dean's nipple with them. He laves it generously, his finger plucking at Dean's other nipple as he lavishes attention with his mouth on this one, and then he circles it with his tongue. Dean's nipple contracts, too, in his mouth, and Sam hears a gusty sigh, just before Dean's hand lands on his head, his fingers buried in Sam's hair.

Sam switches sides; this time he pinches the wet nipple even as he lips at the other, making it pucker. He teethes on it for a moment, gently, and Dean's body is swaying like a reed in the breeze, his knees apparently none too steady, because the hand not in Sam's hair is clutching at Sam's shoulder for balance. Sam switches sides again, to give Dean's nipples equal attention, suckling at one like he can draw Dean's orgasm out simply through his mouth, and their connection through that sensitive nub on Dean's body. And Sam is enchanted, drawn by the scent and taste of Dean, by the way his nipples are so responsive, and the way his hand keeps opening and closing in Sam's hair.

Sam inhales Dean's scent—his arousal is an aphrodisiac on the air—and gives Dean his strength, keeping him steady and standing. Dean's chest is beginning to glitter with perspiration, and Sam swipes his tongue up over one nipple, then follows the angles of his pectoral muscle, and in doing so, Dean groans, and Sam discovers that Dean's enjoyment manifests in a litany of different sounds and cadences—Sam has never heard him groan this particular way before.

Dean's breathing, too, is sharp, riffling Sam's hair. His fingers are gripping Sam's shoulder so hard they're probably leaving red half-moon shapes on his skin from Dean's nails—but Sam doesn't mind; he likes the idea of being marked up by Dean. And then Dean's knees start to buckle when Sam leans, and the rough denim of his jeans abrades Dean's cock. Dean seems to like it—his eyes are closed, his cheeks rosy, and his breathing becoming frantic.

Sam's own body is clamoring for attention, his cock begging for him to speed up, to toss Dean bodily onto the bed, rip off his jeans, and bury himself in Dean—but he forces himself to take a deep breath, to count to ten—then twenty—and slowly, so slowly, pull back from Dean. As a parting gift, he blows over Dean's nipples, and they become hard, focused little points—and Dean responds with yet another groan, again different, as if Dean has an entire catalogue that Sam can only hope to one day discover.

"Dean," he says, his voice almost profane in the fraught silence that's shrouded them. Sam knows there's noise in the background—Dean's police radio, a dog barking, and airplane roaring overhead—but at the same time, they're cloaked in their own little world, outside unable to intrude. "Dean, look at me."

Dean's eyes open a fraction, then wider, as his brother comes back to himself—just a bit. They're hazy, green muted by arousal, and Dean's lips are puffy—but whether from Sam's kisses are just his own body's reaction to Sam's stimulation, it's hard to tell.

"I'm getting undressed now," Sam says. "Watch me, Dean. Don't take your eyes off me."

Dean nods. "Yeah, Sammy," he says, husky voice gilded with arousal. "I can see ya… and it's, there are no words."

Sam unbuttons his own jeans, then unzips, then shakes his hips to get them to drop, kicking out of them. His underwear are not long for this world, and Sam pitches them somewhere—he doesn't bother to look where they land. Nude now, Dean's eyes locked on him, Sam skims a hand down his own chest and finds his cock, huge, heavy, and aching for Dean. He caresses himself, once, lazily, and Dean's eyes follow the trajectory of Sam's hand on the length of his cock, and he moistens his lips, clearly awestruck by the view—and likely also by the understanding that they can have this, that they _share_ this.

Sam's cock jumps against his hand, which he lets fall away, and he takes note of Dean's hooded eyes, his shining lips, and his nipples, which are still faintly damp from Sam's mouth. It's time, he thinks. More foreplay, yes, but time to move this to the bed.

He could tell Dean what to do—and he knows Dean would take instruction without arguing, much like Dean is John's good little soldier, even though he suspects Dean would prefer _Sam's_ orders—to get on the bed, to lie back, but he doesn't want to speak. Doesn't want to break the spell he's woven around them both, the fraught atmosphere that's tangling around them. So he disentangles himself from Dean, first by loosing the hand in his hair, then by unfolding Dean's fingers from his shoulder, and he directs Dean to turn, patting him on the ass in a way that says, _get moving._

His brother doesn't _need_ spoken words; he takes Sam's cue and stumbles over to the bed. Sam doesn't immediately follow; he watches the shift and flex of the muscles in Dean's ass and back as Dean puts one knee on the bed, then the other, then twists and lies back. He lets his arms stay by his sides, his cock now curving faintly to the left, and leaving a sticky smear over one hipbone. Sam wants his hands on those hipbones, he wants his tongue on them, he wants to lick up the streak of precome.

Sam gets on the bed. It's somewhat graceless—he's just as worked up as Dean, though he's being careful not to show it, and taking deep breaths to keep things slow—and just before he covers Dean, he leans over, opens the bedside drawer, and finds the lube. He drops it on the bed by Dean's hip, on the side of the bed that's against the wall, and makes a note of it where it is—for later.

Then, as Dean's hips shift restlessly, his cock even more flushed than before—along with a flush on Dean's cheeks that has suffused his chest as well—Sam brackets Dean's hips with his knees, one hand on either side of Dean's head. He lets his head fall towards Dean, between his shoulderblades, and can't quite control his breathing anymore—just Dean like this, a feast for Sam's eyes, and an all-you-can-eat buffet for Sam's delectation, is enough to make him want to come _right this second_. He has to struggle for breath, for a modicum of willpower, but he finds it—by meeting Dean's gaze and absorbing the serenity within his eyes.

And then he kisses Dean. This kiss is lovely, drugging and deep, and Dean doesn't battle for dominance, he meekly accepts Sam's thrust and parry, and even though Dean's tongue runs along the sides of Sam's, even as their tongues rub together, Dean is allowing Sam all the power. Sam is as drugged on that as he is on their kisses; he nips at Dean's bottom lip, then swirls his tongue through Dean's mouth, then savors the taste of Dean as their mouths mingle. Dean's mouth actually tastes almost the same as the flavor of Sam's own mouth—is that a function of their shared blood? The relationship between them that's been intensifying since birth, only to be consummated here, now, in this bed?

Sam lifts his head. Dean's eyes are closed again, his breathing rough and uneven, his diaphragm expanding with each breath—a long pull on the air, like Dean would take a long pull on a beer bottle—sucking in oxygen to keep blood flowing, though most of it has settled in his dick. The blood-rich sight of it is making Sam a little dizzy.

So he inclines his head, tongue flickering out to taste Dean's precome where it's shining on his hipbone, and he ever so briefly palms Dean's dick—the lightest touch, there and gone, as he rests his cheek on Dean's hip, simply breathing in and out—which has the added bonus of causing his breath to wash over the tip of Dean's cock. Dean's dick twitches, the crown bumping Sam's nose, and Sam reaches up and wipes the fluid away, sticking his finger in his mouth. Dean's body is heaving with the efforts of his breath, even as he fists his hands in the blanket—obviously constraining his strength, to keep from touching Sam, from breaking the thrall Sam has thrown over them both.

Sam doesn't lick Dean, though he wants to; he leaves his head there a few moments longer before drawing back up, till he's leaning back on his haunches, examining Dean critically. His brother is a mess: cheeks pink, hair stuck damply to his forehead, nipples swollen and ruched. His cock is bobbing gently against his belly; Sam won't allow himself the privilege of cupping Dean, not yet. He simply watches Dean, waiting for Dean to open his eyes—but he doesn't, and Sam realizes he has to lead Dean. Dean won't take an initiative, not here, not now, so finally, though, he has to say something. This is too important to expect Dean to answer with touches and eye contact; too important for Sam to try to ask with only his eyes.

"Dean. Are you ready?" He draws a finger down the center of Dean's chest, then, bypassing his cock, he lightly lays his hand on Dean's thigh. Dean's body trembles. Dean's eyes blink open, and he seems to have trouble bringing Sam's face into focus, to hearing Sam's question. "Dean." Sam nudges Dean's thighs apart with his own knee, making space for himself between Dean's legs. He spreads them wider, and Dean lets his knees fall open, and Sam is suddenly right where he's always wanted to be, cradled in the heat of Dean's lower body.

He lifts Dean's balls, heavy, soft, into his palm, and with his other hand, he presses his thumb to Dean's hole; the tight little muscle is furled completely closed, as if it will never accept Sam's intrusion, but Sam knows differently. Dean moans now—new sound, new pitch—and his lower body lifts up a little as if to encourage Sam even more. Sam uses the opportunity to grab a pillow and jam it beneath Dean's ass, to give himself a better angle for thrusting.

"Do you want this?" Sam thinks he knows the answer—he knows his brother, doesn't he? And Dean wanted this from Sam. But nonetheless, Dean might have reservations—though he hasn't shown any indication of them so far. So he puts it to words, and puts it to Dean, who nods.

"I want you to fuck me, Sammy. Just you this time. Drown out all the others—make me yours. I want you to be the last person to ever fuck me." Dean doesn't say, _the last person to see me like this,_ but his eyes convey a wealth of information. And Sam shudders with the weight of Dean's trust, the responsibility for Dean's happiness and his pleasure. Dean isn't just asking for this now—he's making a pact with Sam, a promise. A vow. Dean won't look for other men anymore when he needs this. He'll expect it from Sam—and he'll get it. Sam's never going to look away.

"Okay, Dean. I'll give you what you need." Sam blindly searches the bed till he finds the lube. He uncaps it, pours some over his fingers, and chafes them together to coat them thoroughly. When he's satisfied, he closes the cap, lets the bottle fall between Dean's legs, and finds Dean's hole again with his first two fingers. He doesn't really think Dean needs much prep—his brother is old hat at this, even if it's Sam's first time, _their_ first time—but he's not going to make a hash of this. He's going to do it right.

His fingers breach Dean's defenses rather easily, and then he widens them, pulling Dean open. His other hand is busy roaming Dean's chest, his belly; he brushes Dean's dick every so often before he slides it down to curve over Dean's flank. He holds himself there for long moments, their breaths in perfect tandem, and his two fingers enveloped by Dean's heat. And God, is he _hot_. It's like putting his fingers in an oven.

"Sammy," Dean says, though it's more of a mewl. A new sound, new pitch; Sam stores each one up like the treasures they are. "More, Sammy. Not so gentle."

"But not rough," Sam says. "Not this time." But he obliges Dean, moves his fingers in and out—then quests for that spot that he knows will send pleasure careening through Dean's body. Sam had found it inside his own body once when masturbating, and he knows the effect of it: like being struck by lightning, only instead of being incinerated, you _fly_.

And then, crooking his finger, _he finds it_. Dean's moan—new pitch, different sound, same tenor—rips through him, through Sam too, and his body clamps down on Sam's fingers.

"Now, Sammy," Dean pants, and even though Sam wanted to hold all the reins, he can't resist the pleading in Dean's tone. He tugs his fingers free—Dean's body doesn't want to let them go. He finds the lube, slathers it over his cock, circles Dean's hole with some, then flings it away. He's feeling the burn of banked arousal now, the desperate need to _let go_. And he places the blunt head of his cock at Dean's hole.

One hand still glued to the outer curve of Dean's buttock, he uses the other hand to penetrate Dean with his finger, to open Dean up just a little—God, his brother's tight. Sam can't wait to get inside, to be sleeved by Dean's passage. And then he eases his way in, in tiny increments, listening to the way Dean's breath catches every time he gets another inch inside.

And Sam knows: Dean's never been fucked like this. Not only with tenderness born of love, rather than quick, dirty madness in a filthy bar bathroom or in a back alley, but by _Sam_. The fact that they're blood, that they know each other better than they know themselves, that they can touch like this on a soul-level—it makes it all new for Dean, his cherry popped by Sam, even as Sam loses his own virginity. It's a beautiful moment, all wrapped up in the sun's glow as it sparks off Dean's blonde hair—and Sam, halfway in, pauses. Dean's hips come up, trying to pull Sam in, but he puts one hand on Dean's abdomen and holds him down. Holds him there, in a stasis of ecstasy, waiting on Sam's pleasure.

And then Sam takes the question out of it; he sinks down into Dean, all at once sheathed by heat and silk. Dean's body feels _wonderful._ He's hot enough to scorch Sam all the way to his soul, and soft enough to make Sam want to weep with how good it feels, and tight enough to be the best grip Sam's ever felt. He holds there, again keeping them suspended in time, until Dean's fingernails claw down Sam's ass, and Sam realizes that he can't simply glory in the squeeze of Dean's muscles, the satiny texture of his inner walls. So he moves, a smooth withdrawal at first, not all the way, not enough to unseat himself, but enough to make Dean cry out—new sound, new register—and then he hilts himself in Dean's heat again.

He tears his gaze away from where they're joined, brings it up to Dean's face: his body, his eyes, his mouth as Sam kisses him, all a revelation. Sam mimics the thrust of his cock with his tongue, and as he buries himself inside Dean, inch by inch, he realizes Dean's rocking his pelvis upward, keening in his throat—new sound, lower register, Sam stores it up, imprints it on his memory—and begging wordlessly for _more_.

Sam can't deny his brother anything. He draws back, cock gliding out of Dean at a turtle's pace, and leaves them both teetering at a precipice—not climax, not yet, but the last moments of reason before they plunge below the waterline and cast away their wits. And then he encases himself inside Dean, till he bottoms out and they both gasp. Dean's hands are no longer idle; he's got one on Sam's shoulder again, and the other at Sam's hip, as if he can direct Sam's movements, even though he's not actually trying.

Sam's cock drags along Dean's channel, probing for that one sweet spot, until the head must bump up against it, drawing a long, low growl from Dean—new sound, new style—and causing his spine to arch. Sam slips his hand around Dean's back, holding him arched like that, caressing the very base of his spine and then using long sweeps of his hand to map out the knots of Dean's vertebra as he does. Dean collapses back after a moment, sweat running into his eyes—sweat dripping from Sam's hair, even as he gyrates his hips, still enclosed in that snug, sweltering place inside Dean's body.

It's then, just then, when Dean's hand goes to the base of his own dick and squeezes, and his eyes flicker open and he captures Sam's gaze. Sam is in the process of withdrawing, of planning another siege on Dean's body, when Dean lifts his other hand to Sam's lips. It's as if he's telling Sam not to speak, even though neither of them have been, too wrapped up in the moment, in the glorious joining of their bodies.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, voice husky. "I need to piss. Go easy." His eyes are pleading—but Sam doesn't think he's pleading for quarter, not now. And his words barely register through the fog of lust clouding Sam's brain, but they _do_ —Dean is becoming desperate, and not for orgasm. Sam reads those eyes and they do _not_ say, _gentler_ , but instead, _force me_. Dean is asking something with his eyes that his words won't let him say.

So Sam plunges into Dean's depths, ramping up the tempo, and Dean's body is jostled on the bed; his brother grabs his hip and hangs on, trying to brace himself to keep from sliding upward into the headboard. Sam begins to seesaw back and forth, to drill into Dean and angle it so that Dean, with his ass propped up by the pillow, gets the benefit of even more depth to the penetration. Sam swings one of Dean's legs up, throwing it over his shoulder, and begins to stroke in and out off Dean—and then he yanks Dean's hand away from his cock, slaps his own down on Dean's belly, and inserts it between cock and stomach. Much like a few weeks ago, he can find the hard swelling of Dean's bladder—and he compresses it. Hard. Implacably. Without mercy.

Dean whimpers. "Sammy…"

"You gonna use your safe word, Dean?" Sam asks, even as he keeps the pressure on. Dean shakes his head; Sam takes distant note that they'll be doing laundry later. And thus, he plows his cock into Dean, adding pressure from the inside in tandem with the pressure from the outside, and Dean bites his lower lip.

He holds on longer than Sam expects. Much like Sam—who can feel knives of pleasure at the base of his spine, and little sparkles of it at the base of his cock—is hanging on for dear life, to keep things going for as long as he can, Dean is made of sterner stuff than your average person. He's had to be, with the life they've led, but he's also learning quickly about pissplay and how it works. Sam is proud of him for trying, and for being willing to play along—at least until he's fully committed to the idea, and Sam thinks he might be, now.

And then, on one particularly firm drive into Dean, combined with the fierce, unrelenting pressure of his hand, his brother's control evaporates. Piss spurts up from his cock, wetting his belly, his pubic hair, and Sam's chest. It quickly becomes a torrent, splashing them both liberally, and running down Dean's ribs and hips and soaking into the bed. Dean's body is arching, his bladder emptying, and Sam knows a bit of fear—he's not going to be able to go on much longer. Watching Dean lose control is wreaking havoc with Sam's own. Sam is precariously balanced now, trying to bring Dean to completion before he finds his own satisfaction—and with Dean pissing himself—pissing them _both_ —it's going to be difficult.

Sam wraps his hand around Dean's cock, getting immediately soaked even as Dean is becoming more and more drenched, and Sam, despite everything, despite the way his body clamors for release, has to ask:

"Did you… did you prepare for this, Dean?"

His brother's green eyes are limpid and innocent, as if he wouldn't do something like drink several glasses of water and then hold it, becoming more and more desperate, as he waited for Sam to come home—and Sam was right before. This _is_ an ambush. But this is also a hill he'll gladly die on.

Using the lube still slicking his fingers combined with the piss flowing downward over Dean's cock, Sam begins to jack him; even as his own hips press forward and back, even as his own body syncs with thrust and retreat—thrust and retreat—he's going to deposit them both in some sunlit valley of pleasure—sooner rather than later.

They come at the same time. Sam, completely swallowed by Dean's body, his brother's ass hoisted into the air even as the piss slows to a trickle, and Dean, his body parting with more fluid—their climaxes synchronized, as if Sam could have planned it, as if he didn't know how unlikely it is for two people to find their pleasure at the same instant.

Sam lets Dean drop gently back to the bed; the bed squishes and sends up a wave of hot, acrid piss when Dean's body lands against it. Sam, rolling to his side, comes free of Dean and lies back on the bed, not in the least disturbed to be amongst the mess.

"I didn't totally plan that," Dean offers as a conversational gambit some minutes later. "I hope I didn't ruin the mattress."

"There's an extra bed, in the room at the opposite end of the hall from Dad's," Sam points out, body beginning to slip towards exhaustion.

"Did you like it, Sammy?" Dean's fingers are playing in his hair, his tone casual; Dean's feeling a little bit self-conscious, as if he expects Sam to castigate him. Sam smiles, knowing that Dean will hear it in his voice when he speaks.

"I might be sixteen, Dean, but I know a little bit about deprivation—call it from growing up with Dad. I wasn't going to come until I was ready." He taps Dean's hip. "But you played dirty. I hadn't any choice in the matter once you started pissing; I was done for."

The bed shakes as Dean laughs near-silently.

"It was about time. You were driving me crazy. If I had to wait any longer—"

"To piss, or to come?" Sam levers himself up on one elbow, hanging his upper body over Dean. He narrows his eyes. "Did you start pissing then _on purpose_ , or did you stop being able to hold it?"

Dean grins. "Does it matter?"

Sam slugs Dean in the shoulder—gently. From the shape of that grin, Sam may never know the answer for certain—but he has his suspicions.

And it's true. It was always going to be an ambush.

END


End file.
